Page 37 of Spearcrest Knight

I lost the moment I stepped foot in Spearcrest.

Voices rise, become faceless.

“She’s just been clinging on to Evan—so desperate.”

“Her parents are cleaners. She only got a place here because they begged the school to let her.”

“I’m so embarrassed for her.”

“I hear she has a crush on Evan—I’d be so offended if I was him.”

“Have you seen those gross spots on her face? Does she even wash?”

The voices all melt into one, anonymous, amorphous mass. But one voice stands out; the voice I know best.

“Yeah, at first I just felt sorry, because her parents are so poor and literally nobody likes her, but it’s like she’s obsessed or something, she’s always hanging about and trying it on. It’s just awkward—it’s not like I’m going to date her just out of pity, maybe that’s what she hopes. I guess she’ll just go for anybody who gives her attention.”

“Maybe you’ve been too nice to her, Ev,” Luca says with a cocky little smirk. “Poor people can’t tell the difference between a gift and a handout.”

But my eyes are fixed on Evan’s. Fury swells in my throat, my eyes are burning.

“I don’t want to be your girlfriend,” I say loudly, loud enough for everybody to hear. “I don’t want to be your girlfriend, or even your friend, and I definitely don’t want your handouts.” I pull on the necklace he gave me, snapping the clasp, and drop it into my plate of spaghetti. “So you can take it back.”

An expression flashes across Evan’s face, fast as lightning. A strange, unreadable expression, almost feral. Then it’s gone, and there’s nothing left but the amused grin, the cocky confidence.

“Nah, I don’t want it back. Keep it, Sutton.”

And then, with the quick strength of a school athlete, he flips my tray at me. I don't even have time to react before spaghetti and apple juice fly at my face. Laughter explodes through the dining hall. I sit, frozen, sauce smearing my face, my white shirt. Pasta dangles in my hair, on my shoulders. Apple juice drips down my cheeks like tears.

But I’m not crying.

They can take everything from me. But not my tears. For as long as I’m here, I’ll never give them this. I’ll never let them see me cry.

It doesn’t take long for everybody to grow bored with the spectacle. Evan and his friends walk away without another backward glance. The crowd disperses. I sit, and don’t move until after the bell rings.

That was the first time Evan burned me, but not the last.

He burned me many more times after that, for years. Countless trays flipped, countless plates of food thrown at my face. Countless uniforms ruined. Notebooks wrecked, pens snapped, handfuls of dirt shoved into my backpack, my pockets, down my back. Hurtful words, unbearable humiliations, litanies of insults and mockeries.

But nothing hurt quite as much as that first burn. That scar still serves me as a reminder of who Evan truly is, and exactly what he’s capable of.

Evan

Ifocusallmyattention on making coffee: pulling out the filter, scooping in the grounds, evening them out—exactly how Dad taught me. Winding Sophie up is intoxicating, but I’m starting to realise the danger of it.

Flirting with girls is fun. It’s light-hearted and playful, like playing a game you can’t lose.

But what I’m doing with Sophie is different. It could never be just flirting, because handling Sophie will never be like handling just any girl. Sophie is something else, and so flirting has to be something else, too.

So this isn’t flirting. Whatever this is, it’s reckless, heavy and intense. Not like playing a game, but like sparring. It’s dangerous and wild, and it makes my blood run hot in the same way rugby used to. It makes my skin hot and my cock hard.

Sophie might think I’m stupid, but I know what I’m doing. Flirting with girls is one thing: I never have to worry about the consequences of that. But flirting with Sophie is like playing with fire, except she’s not the one who would end up in flames.

Because nothing ever gets to Sophie.

I should know. I’ve done plenty over the years to test her armour. I’ve never seen so much as a crack or a chip. Her armour is made of the most impenetrable ice. Sophie could walk through an inferno and it would never melt.

When the coffee is ready, I pour two cups and return to the kitchen island. She’s sitting with her chin in her hand, absent-mindedly doodling on a pale yellow sticky note. I slide one of the cups of coffee over to her and she gives me a wary look.

---